CHAPTER XX. "He is a dreamer, let us leave him." SUCH a life as this was certainly worth living. How different from the existence on earth, compounded, as it is, in equal proportions of dulness and madness. Here was no toil nor lassitude, no wearisomeness nor want, no ill-will nor discontent. Time flowed away smoothly and gently through delicious scenes, and pleasant places, through meadows and flowers, through noble bridges and superb cities, through the desolations of solitude, and the joyful haunts of men. Sunlit or starlit the firmament above was ever genial and serene; the troubles of the old life had long since ebbed away, lost in the contentment and delight everywhere prevalent in this transcendent realm. I almost felt ashamed of this self-complacency and happiness, it seemed so adverse and repugnant to the ordinary state of things, fraught, as they were, with disquietude, prudence, and solicitude, and hedged about with all the painful carefulness and circumspection, so necessary and compulsory in all the transactions and enjoyments of this world. And yet the elements of both states of existence were composed of laws and principles precisely the same. The passions-the temper—the mind -the habitual characteristics were here above, even as they were there below. The components being the same, wherefore should the result be so widely different? Here in this after state, humanity seemed constituent with tranquillity and peace; but on earth, although instinct with the self-same nature, and governed by the self-same laws, the whole system was different, and existence appeared in an aspect so straightened and repulsive, as to affright the most common-sense, and appal the most incredulous. I longed much to know wherein consisted the essential difference, and why it was that the human spirit in one world should be all dissatisfaction and disjointedness, while in the other such peace and harmony should prevail; why should the soul in the one, traverse the fool's road of uneasiness and toil, while in the other-like Cæsar on the wings of Victory, thundering along the Flamminian way-it triumphed and rejoiced. Mankind seemed to be divided into two classes; the one, stupid and contented, pursue the broad highway of common sense and mediocrity; the other, a more exclusive company, are discontented with all prevailing habitudes, and are called misanthropes, and beings dissatisfied. I wished to analyse this difference of human natures. For the latter class there was every sympathy: for the former none. Complaint and pain will have way; they speak in silence and manner, if not in tone and accent audible; they love disguise and caprice, like other passions; they will rave like Timon, or sneer like Swift, or sham the laugh of Rabelais, like the most expert courtier; they inspire a Juvenal and a Persius in every community, and in almost every company. These are looked upon as bitter and morose men, or if they write as authors, are supposed to have good intention in the main, and an inmost wish to chastise the vices of their day. They have no such wish. Theirs is the voice of anguish and distress, but they are spirits too high to indicate that they suffer, save through badinage and abuse. Nevertheless, the spirit, prompting such satires, seems uncourtly and discrepant. Men in general avoid them. There is an unpleasant arrogance, too, in this sardonic tone, scarcely allowable. It is assuming too much in any one to sneer down institutions and practices sanctioned by the whole race of mankind; and why should this biting scorner assume such authority, and persuade us that he knows more than others? Censure is seldom liked, and no man is justified in beginning his career by offending. He much resembles those small fault-finders who infest society, to whom censure is a choice and delectable fruit ever on the tongue, and from which is drawn every enjoyment. But in the main they are widely different; the one prudent, prim, and practical, in bland self-complacency, and self-admiration, is ever displaying his shrewdness in picking out small faults, the other is a master spirit overthrown: he in the calm desolation of his heart arraigns, like another Edipus, the destinies of the sky. But such is not to be allowed in any well-regulated community. The morals of the weak-minded, forsooth, must not be shaken. It seems that however a man suffer and endure, he shall in no wise object, and anything less than the blandest concurrence in all the hardships and customary unfairness of the world, is looked upon as vital corruption, and innate evil of heart. It is expected that the needy and adventurous genius, seated, perchance, at some menial board, agitated with fine susceptibilities and aspiring thoughts, and subject to a life of struggle and humiliation, should forget all, and grow young in heart again; forget all the bye-gone harsh servitude and oppositions of life; forget his poverty, in which terrible word is concentrated meanness, servility, degradation, and sorrow. Yes, he must smile to the last; he must pay mock reverence to society; and if his voice should break forth, the universal drone of grave reprobation and vehement denunciation, with which he is received, would lead one to suspect that some demon of mischief possessed him, or that needlessly he reproached all that was held good and virtuous amongst men. It is in no wise permitted him to speak according to his experience. People usually wonder that mankind does not learn from the experience of others; but here they forbid a man to profit by his own. Howsoever this may be, let us put querulousness and complaint aside. Matters are quite bad enough as they stand, nor are they to be improved by censure, of which we have heard quite enough, and are wearied as much with satire as the commonest sense. Why this diversity and discord among men? In the outset they all act alike, and at the conclusion generally agree in the same opinions. It is a mere matter of time. In the common practice of life all men are equal. Saint, Satirist, |